Knotted Gold
by skyspottedshadow
Summary: England loves brushing America's hair, and America knows it. Fem!America, Fem!England


I don't own Hetalia. Duh. Oh, by the way, YES this is ANOTHER Revolution fic. I claim originality due to my gender swapping and lack of USUK-ing. You can't stop me. I do as I like!

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It was funny how England's visits began and ended with England taking care of her hair. Even now, England's expression stayed fresh in her mind, a fond mix of exasperation and amusement. It would consistently make the prim Brit laugh, America's desperate attempts to barter her way out of having her hair brushed, usually offering to brush England's instead, to which she would always reply, "Knowing you, it would probably be worse off afterwards."

To England's credit, she did try her best to be nice, carefully pulling out the leaves and burrs and gently working at the matts, pressing a kiss the the back of her head when the little girl whimpered. Still, America only relaxed when England declared her 'presentable' and stepped back to admire her work.

This routine had started a few weeks after England had accepted America as a colony and America had accepted England as a big sister. England had one day requested that America grow out her extremely short haircut ("You look like a little boy!") and when America had argued that it would only get knotted and dirty, the older woman had smiled slightly (America reflected how much a smile softened her face, rare as they were ) and said that she would take care of it.

The truth was that England coveted America's hair, how it was the color of spun gold and the way it effortlessly shined and bounced in a way hers never could. So, it became just one more thing she loved about her young charge. Eventually, when it was long enough, she patiently taught America to braid it so it wouldn't gather as much debris. The feeling inside her chest when America came running to see her, wildflowers woven into her clumsily done braid, was something that she couldn't quite describe.

But now, the long mane of gold means something entirely different in America's eyes. It is just one more thing that is not her choice to make anymore. Don't move west, don't get into fights, and **don't cut your hair**. So many don'ts and won'ts and can'ts that America feels like they are suffocating her. But she can never stay angry for long, because every time she passes a mirror or brushes her her hair back with her hands she is reminded of the green-eyed woman that hugged her when she cried and told her stories of fairies and magic late into the night. Who is she even angry at?

Her people are angry at the King, at Parliament, at the Redcoats (the first time England heard that nickname, she had cursed angrily, then proceeded to apologize for her foul language for the rest of the day). **America**, by extension, is angry at the King, at Parliament, at the Redcoats. England is all of those things, all of those people. Is America angry at England? Yes. No. She can't be. Every time she tries to be, there are conflicting memories of an England shouting at her, demanding an explanation for the money lost in the Boston Tea Party and England making her daisy chains, that delicate sort of happiness on her face.

America has stopped letting England touch her hair. It makes it seem like the feelings of her people, the anger, the indignation is just a misunderstanding that will melt away in time. It makes it seem like America is wrong to tear down the boundaries and limits and rules England has strung up all around her. It makes her feel like screaming and crying.

One day, America realizes that putting her hair off limits to England is not enough. It is still a reminder of England's affection and oppression all in one. Before she knows it, she standing in front of her mirror, worrying her hands and chewing her lip.

It reaches to the small of her back to brush the teal blouse she's wearing, easy waves running through it. America can never stand to be without sun for long, so the tips are bleached from sunshine and platinum highlights catch the light as she turns slightly to examine her hair.

Suddenly, she is holding the rusty shears that she barely ever uses in her right hand, the cool metal sturdy against her palm. Just a few easy flexes of her hand and she will be held back no more. _Is that really a good thing? _All she has to do is cut her hair. _And her ties with England. _The wretched remainder of England's rules _and love _will finally be gone. _You can't get it back. _She will be strong _feared_ and independant _alone_. What she has always wanted. _Have you?_

Maybe it is not what she wants, but it is what her people want. She's doing this for her people. She has to do it for them. When her fingers finally move, the cuts are steady and swift. She doing this for them.

This thought is still echoing dully in her mind when she is staring at thick strands clutched in white knuckled fingers. She does feel much lighter now that it's gone. Despite this, her knees buckle when she drops the shears, the dripping of something (water?) hitting the wood floor barely registering in her mind.


End file.
